


among all the impossible things

by alekszova



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), First Kiss, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), connor isolates himself from everyone and is convinced they all hate him., hank is. dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 04:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18958246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekszova/pseuds/alekszova
Summary: Markus takes Connor somewhere quiet so they can be alone together.





	among all the impossible things

Connor had scars, once. They littered his body with reminders of everything he did wrong. How he couldn’t fight back, how he wasn’t fast enough or strong enough or good enough. How, once upon a time, there was something etched into the surface of his plastic body telling him again and again that he wasn’t good enough.

_If your investigation doesn’t make progress soon, I may have to replace you, Connor._

And it would’ve been deserved.

Even now, he thinks it’s deserved.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks of CyberLife and the mission they assigned him. It doesn’t matter how he feels in regards to what he was forced to do, how guilt washes over him and pulls him down into a pit of despair when he thinks of the blood on his hands—

It’s the fact he failed, and he was meant to do better. He couldn’t manage the one thing they built him for. What is he meant to do now? He is useless. He is worthless.

  


_You’re lost._

_You’re looking for something._

_You're looking for yourself._

He still is. It’s been a year, and he is _still_ lost. He thought it would be easier. He thought he could figure out who he was by now. He thought he could understand and he hasn’t even scratched the surface. Every time he tries to figure out the personality underneath all the plastic, all he can come up with is _Failure._

  


“Connor?”

He turns away from the mirror, wonders how long Markus has been watching him. If he saw Connor’s fingers run across the LED again and again, never quite deciding whether or not it should remain. Some days, he gets so close to getting rid of it, that he has the scissors in his hands, poised to dig into his skull before it clatters against the floor. He can’t manage to make himself do it yet. A year of standing in front of the mirror, of wandering around the newfound Jericho, trying to decide if he should be like most of the others.

There are, of course, androids that leave their LEDs where they are. There are some who turn them into mementos. Hanging on chains around their necks or placed carefully in boxes like a human might do with a trinket or a photograph. _Memory box._ Hank had one, tucked away on a shelf. Hidden like a regular shoebox, but the dust around it was missing. The shelf clean where the rest of them were coated in a layer of grime. Taken away frequently for the contents to be looked through.

Connor doesn’t feel as though he can be like the other androids. The ones that still allow their armbands or their uniforms to remain a part of their wardrobe. The ones who don’t attempt to hide what they are. He feels like he should be. Wear the uniform proudly, keep the LED and stay as the android sent by CyberLife.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

He is _the android sent by CyberLife._  Sent to hunt them down and kill them all. Sometimes, when it’s quiet, he still thinks he can hear their whispers, telling him what to do. Take a gun and shoot Markus. Take a gun and kill as many as he can before they fight back.

He turns away from the mirror, trying to bring himself away from those thoughts, pulling the hat from where it lies on the dresser, hiding away his LED like he had the first time he arrived here.

“Do you need me for something?” he asks, hoping simultaneously that the answer is both yes and no.

Sometimes, he prefers to be wanted for something other than a cursory glance at the files from the DPD that Markus has been given. He would like to be something other than what he was designed for. Something other than an android to pick apart a crime scene as best as he can from a few photographs. He is tired of blood, both human and android. He didn’t attempt to get a job at the DPD for a reason, and it wasn’t because of the enemies he made while he was there.

But he would also like the excuse to spend time with Markus. In his time here, their paths only cross when he’s needed for this. Pulled away from his tiny room in this place they’ve claimed for themselves. Standing close to him, feeling the heat of his body against his own as he flips through a file to decide whether or not the police are on the right track.

It’s an excuse, a terrible one.

He doesn’t do it for the reason that he should—to make up for the things he’s done. That is only a small part of it. But he doesn’t think there’s any amount of work he could put forth in the world to make Markus think he is anything more than a deviant hunter filled with guilt. And he is. That is all he really, truly is. But he wishes he could be more. He wishes he could be something that Markus looks at with adoration in his eyes instead of—

Nothing.

There is nothing when Markus looks at him.

He feels _nothing_ towards Connor.

Not even anger.

He should be grateful for that, he supposes. He doesn’t know if he could survive Markus hating him. He lost Hank already, before he could ever really have him. He can’t lose the only other person that has decided to attempt to care of him.

“No. I just wanted to talk.”

“About?”

Markus offers a small smile, the gentle and kind one, the one that Connor knows he uses when talking to anyone that he is trying to make feel at ease. It is harder to read the body language of an android. They are better at faking things than humans—even deviants. More in control of their actions even when they are filled with emotion. He knows the smile isn’t real. It is too carefully crafted, too false, used too often for pleasantry than something genuine.

“Come with me,” he says, and he holds out his hand towards him and the mere act of it makes Connor take a large step forward to take it. Too eager, like a little puppy that’s realized his owner has come home. “I have something to show you.”

“A surprise?”

“A surprise.”

  


He likes holding Markus’ hand. He doesn’t want him to let go. It is the most contact they’ve had in the entirety of their relationship since Markus reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. Connor keeps skipping back to that moment at night time. Thinking about how much he wanted Markus to pull him forward and hug him. The regret that he didn’t do it himself increases every single time he lays down to rest and feels the increasingly heavy weight of loneliness and isolation. The only thing he wanted in that moment was someone to embrace him tight and tell him that everything was going to be okay. Markus was just a stranger then, but still.

It’s _Markus._

“Be careful,” he says, helping Connor up the steps. “They’re old.”

Connor nods, but doesn’t let go of Markus’ hand as he ascends the stairs, grasping onto the railing with his free hand as they go up. He hears the boards creak underneath his feet, follows Markus’ lead as he skips a step that looks like it’s caving in. Bent down like the weather has started to ruin it.

He hasn’t been outside in a while. He crept up to the rooftop once, heard the familiar voices of North and Josh conversing with Markus. Soft words that floated down to him. Quiet remembrances of their lost friend.

Simon.

_Simon._

He holds onto Markus’ hand a little tighter, knowing that after that moment he had run away to hide in his room and do his best not to scream because he knew _he_ was the cause of Simon’s death. He had tried to save him. He had tried to race forward and pry the gun from his hand and get the other people not to shoot at him. He knows his intentions were ill then—only existing for the purpose of tearing Simon apart the way CyberLife wanted him to be destroyed instead of by bullets—but he had still tried to keep him alive, even just a little bit. He had wanted Simon alive.

And they both ended up dead.

The one singular time he was killed and it was by Simon’s hand because he wasn’t good enough to get the job done. If Connor had been, would the result be any different? Would Simon be dead now, because of CyberLife instead of because of the guns on that rooftop? What if he had just refused to open that door, chose to walk away when he saw the smear of blue blood?

He could have. He knows he could have. There were other things to investigate. The rooftop wasn’t a pressing manner but his feet had pulled him up there, his mission had taken him to that door and tore it open and before more scars could be added to his body, he was dead on the ground. Hank told Connor he died in his arms. He doesn’t remember that. He only remembers not being fast enough to dodge one of the bullets that Simon was firing. He only remembers the pain in both of his shoulders from the wounds he received prior to his death even though he wasn't meant to feel anything at all.

He used to have scars. He doesn’t anymore. They exist solely in his head instead. Weighted things pulling him down whenever he has a chance to be alone.

And, apparently, whenever he’s with Markus. He isn’t a fool. He knows Simon was important to him. A friend, maybe something else, too. Certainly not just a casualty of war. He knows that North is aware that he was on the rooftop when Simon died. He knows why she avoids him. He knows why Josh is the only one who’s ever said a word to him, even if it’s only in passing. He knows Markus is well aware, too, that he was the cause of Simon’s death, and that is the only reason he knows they can be nothing more than this. Whatever  _this_ may be.

“Are you alright?”

_No._

“I don’t like heights,” he replies, not necessarily lying as he steps up into the crisp and clean air. The wind is nice, a relief every once in a while in the otherwise hot space. It’s too close to summer to be wearing what he does. He isn’t a human. He won’t sweat. But it does get uncomfortable when his biocomponents overheat like this. He should get rid of the sweater like he got rid of the jacket, but he finds it comforting. A layer against the world. Heavy and too large, drowning him in the thick cable knit.

“No?” Markus asks, pulling him along. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“We can leave—”

“It’s alright,” he repeats. “Just don’t push me over the edge.”

Markus laughs, but it’s half-hearted. Forced and broken. Trying to cut the awkward tension that Connor has forced into the air. He isn’t good at this. He used to be. It’s as if once he deviated, he lost all ability to interact with others. He just internalizes things now. Forces it to be turned inwards into a sea of overthinking and anxiety.

“Over here,” Markus says.

The way he walks away from him towards a piano in the corner, the way his fingers let go, Connor knows he isn’t meant to be still holding his hand, but he doesn’t want to lose it. He doesn't let go, a silent plea not to be abandoned. He is too dependent on this now. Up here, where he is reminded of all the times he looked over the edge of a rooftop, all the times a PL600 was killed because of him. Maybe not by his hand, but still because of him. Connor and rooftops are a dangerous combination.

“Connor?”

“Sorry,” he whispers, and lets go. “I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Markus says, with a small smile. “You apologize a lot, do you know that?”

“Are you going to tell me to stop?” he asks only because he isn’t sure if he can. Every time he sees Markus he’s filled with the overwhelming urge to whisper _sorry_ again and again until there’s nothing left between them but apologies pressed between their lips.

“I just want you to know you don’t need to,” he says. “Come here. Do you play the piano?”

It’s an old weathered thing. Grime still covering the keys despite someone’s best effort to keep them clean. It is a shock it’s still standing. It looks like it is ready to fall apart like the stairs behind him. Puddles of leftover rainwater not quite dry despite the heat of the sun beating down on them. Buckets tipped over like stools next to a couch with _FLORIDA!_ written across it in spray paint but left dripping and blurry from the cushions being soaked. Red. Better than blue, he thinks. 

 

“I don’t,” he says, pulling his attention away from his surroundings. Too much garbage and dirt to be cleared up. This place isn’t meant to look nice. It is just meant to be a place to be alone. Overlook the city as it starts to fall silent for the night.

How long has this place been left unattended to?

How long has this place been somewhere that Markus goes to hide away at?

“I don’t need to. CyberLife only gave me what was necessary to accomplish my missions. My purpose wasn’t designed for entertainment, so I was never given the ability to entertain.”

“Do you want to learn?”

It’s a simple question, but something in his words feels like they hurt and he doesn’t know why. He can’t pinpoint why it makes an ache in his stomach resurge again as though it was said cruelly instead of kindly. It isn't like when Detective Reed asked him what model he is, when the question was innocent but the way the words were said were like daggers. It isn't even like when Hank asked him about an  _android heaven._ Not a cruel question, not even the slightest, but it is painful nonetheless. It bothers Connor that he cannot understand, no matter how hard he tries, as to why it hurts. 

“I don’t know if I can,” he decides. “You know how to play, then?”

“My owner liked me to play. He was a fan of the arts.”

“Carl Manfred. I know of him.”

“Yes,” Markus says, and his smile is pained and sad. Not something that Connor has seen before. He’s never seen Markus grieve before. He’s never seen him do anything but put on a stoic mask of leadership and try to obtain the rights androids deserve. Determination, certainly, but not this. Not reminiscence. Not nostalgia. He only heard it briefly in his voice that day they talked about Simon. “How did you know?”

“You’re the only RK200 that I’m aware even exists,” he says quietly. “And I did my research before.”

Before, when he was assigned the mission to put a bullet in his head. Before, when he thought he was the only Connor model, when he thought he was the only RK unit.

“Right. Do you want to sit?”

Connor nods, back to that keen puppy, getting close to Markus’ side and sitting on the bench with him. It feels strange being so close to him, when he never felt like he was allowed to before. He avoided Markus as much as he could—more than the others. There is a connection between them, though. One he can’t shake, one he knows is more than just the fact they both had RK listed on their uniforms once. He wants to be close to Markus. He wants to spend time with him. Connor wants to know how it would feel to rest his head on his shoulder, if he could take Markus’ hand in his own again, if there are scars on his body underneath the clothes he wears.

But he doesn’t move and he doesn’t say anything.

“Carl taught me a little bit,” he says, breaking the silence. “But mostly I taught myself. I wasn’t really… _allowed_ to 'cheat', as he put it. He wanted me to pick things up on my own. He wanted me to create my own pieces. I never did. But…”

“But?”

“He said something, before he died, that I was playing differently. I don’t know what he meant by that. I thought I was playing like I always had.”

Connor knows little, but he does know if there was anyone that could have deviated from kindness instead of violence, it would’ve been him. A subtle push into the direction of humanity and emotion instead of a shove. He wonders if that's what Carl meant. That Markus was becoming more and more deviant, that he was playing differently because it was less a body executing a program and more  _him._ More Markus playing with heart and soul, more emotion influencing how he presses the keys, how he picks the notes.

“Do you have a favorite song?”

“I don’t know,” Markus replies. “That’s like asking to pick a favorite child, isn’t it? Impossible.”

Connor nods, but he doesn’t entirely get his meaning. He knows what Markus is referring to. He knows what the phrase is meant to say, but he has never felt something like that before. He has never struggled to pick his favorite of anything. He doesn’t know if he’s ever had a favorite anything. His favorite human, maybe? Hank, easily, if he were asked. There are little other options of humans he even interacted with. Fowler? Kamski? Gavin?

Maybe Chris. Chris is possibly the only competition with Hank. Except he is dead, too.

Every human that has ever treated him as something other than a piece of plastic is dead.

He watches Markus’ hands, trying to force back the emotion that has started to overwhelm him again, instead favoring this instead. Markus’ fingers move across the keys, plucking the notes from the air and laying them down on the ivory. A delicate dance as a song starts to form together. Not something he can place. Not something Connor bothers _trying_ to place. He doesn’t know if it’s something him or Carl created or if it’s just a song that he wouldn’t recognize. He doesn’t listen to music and he never had a need to be able to identify songs. The likelihood that they’d be relevant to a case was too small to be worth putting that information into a prototype.

But it’s nice.

It’s quiet.

Soft.

It reminds him of light, he thinks. It makes him feel a little less heavy, a little less weighed down. It makes him feel, for a moment, as though he could actually feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. Like a picture or a moment from a movie where a human actor has their face turned to the sky with a small smile of contentedness forming. A sense that the world has finally decided to take a breath for a moment. Pause and let the pain shift away. A break. A chance to breathe.

Connor is just an android, but he is an android with thoughts and emotions and feelings.

And this is the first time he has felt something from hearing it that wasn’t a voice or words or a gun firing.

And, of course, Markus is beautiful. The sun behind him, the light like a halo around his body. A golden warmth that spills across the rooftop and seems to flood him from the inside out, seems to cleanse him of everything terrible for just a few moments even though Connor is well aware the darkness is going to come crashing back down the second Markus is done playing.

So he savors it while he can.

The peace.

The quiet.

  


“Why did you bring me up here?” Connor asks. They’ve moved away from the piano to the edge of the building, Markus with his legs hanging over the edge, Connor with his crossed, firmly and safely planted close to Markus, but away from where he might be able to slip over. It wouldn’t be that easy to fall over the edge, but phobias and the reactions to them are rarely conceived out of logical things.

“You’ve been locked away in your room,” Markus answers. “You only leave when I ask for your help.”

“I’m not… good at interacting with others, and I don't think they particularly enjoy me being here.”

“You’re kind,” Markus says, looking back to him. “Are you sure about that?”

“I’m hardly kind.”

He smiles softly, in a way that tells Connor he doesn’t believe his answer, “At some point, Connor, you have to forgive yourself for what you did before.”

Maybe, but now is not the time he can allow himself to move onwards. He’ll wallow in this guilt for as long as it takes. Like a prisoner serving a sentence. It’s what he deserves. He doesn’t have the scars on his body anymore to prove what he’s been through, what he did. How he was always the one to survive and not the others. Not until Simon, when he was given a new, fresh body. Something shiny, something that only told his history by the number changing from -51 to -52.

“Maybe when I save more deviants than I’ve killed,” he says quietly.

“Connor—”

“I don’t think CyberLife Tower should count,” he replies quickly. “It was necessary. It wasn’t something—”

“Stop,” he says, and he reaches out to take Connor’s hand and he only lets Markus do so because he isn’t fast enough to pull it away. “Just stop.”

He can’t. It is the only thing he can think about. A year of these thoughts spilling through his head over and over again like they are being recycled. So many times they shift slightly into something else, a little bit crueler, worded a little bit differently. He has tried to be the best he can manage and he continually fails. It isn’t as though he wants to give up on the task, it is just a reminder that no matter what he does, he will never be worthy of anything more than this. He will never be somebody that someone could want in their life. It is impossible.

Like picking a favorite child.

Like picking a favorite song.

“We both have blood on our hands, Connor,” he says quietly. “We both have to live with what we did.”

But Markus was fighting to free an oppressed and enslaved race while Connor was fighting to destroy them. They are not evenly matched. Markus never killed someone that was defenseless like he did. He never killed someone that didn’t even have their own thoughts and ability to beg for their life like Connor had when Hank pressed a gun to his head.

“I forgive you, Connor.”

He scoffs and opens his mouth to say something, to find words to tell Markus how stupid he is, maybe, but he is silenced with a kiss. Lips pressed against his, a hand moving to his waist. Kissing Connor like he means it. Like it isn’t just to make him feel better, like it isn’t just to placate him. Maybe Markus saw all of the glances and secretive ways that Connor failed at keeping his own feelings hidden, but this can’t be real. It can’t be. His feelings are never requited.

But Markus is still kissing him, and Connor can’t bring himself to stop it because it’s something he has been craving for a long time. He’s never kissed someone before. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but they reach forward and rest awkwardly against his chest, moving to his shoulders and looping around his neck, pulling him closer and closer and he doesn’t want Markus to stop. If Markus stops, then he will certainly break and he is tired of feeling so fragile. He wants to hold onto this as long as he can manage. Craft a memory that will sustain him. Savor this like he savored the feeling of the song Markus played. Protect it for an eternity in his mind even though it will be brief in reality.

Markus pulls away. Slowly, gently, as if he knows how breakable Connor really is. As if he doesn’t want to stop kissing him either, as if he’d prefer they carry on forever. Connor would like that. Spend the rest of his life on this rooftop, here, in this moment, with Markus forever. The remnants of the song still in his body, the sun starting its a slow descent into the horizon, the breeze floating through the space slowly, lazily—

“Why did you do that?” he breathes, and he can’t tell if he’s asking why Markus kissed him or why he _stopped_ kissing him.

“Because I want to,” Markus replies, and he hasn’t moved far enough away from Connor to comfortable open his eyes. He knows Markus is too close to him, that if he leaned forward just a few inches they could be kissing again. Make his second kiss as nice as his first. “Is it okay?”

_Is it okay?_ It feels like such a stupid, trivial question in the midst of all this.

“Y-You really wanted to kiss me?”

“Yes. I’d like to do it again.”

_Again._

“Please,” he manages, and it’s the only word he can get himself to form and it’s enough to make Markus laugh quietly.

And when he kisses Connor, it feels like he is smiling against Connor’s lips. It feels contagious. This—

This _boy,_ this _deviant leader_ kissing him. _Wanting_ to kiss him. _Smiling_ while kissing him. It makes him smile, too. Something small, something tiny, something barely even noticeable—

But the first authentic smile since—

As long as he can remember.

An impossible thing, he thought, but Markus has managed it.

**Author's Note:**

> [hmu on my tumblr](https://norchloe.tumblr.com/) where you can find me being annoying about dbh at all hours of the day.
> 
> posting this on dbh's 1 year anniversary! and i totally planned this! but it is a nice coincidence to post a fic of my original favorite pairing from the game on the day of its release <3


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